


Bluebird

by pipinthesuburbs



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Short, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipinthesuburbs/pseuds/pipinthesuburbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knows that she could never live with herself if she didn’t tell him the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bluebird

**Author's Note:**

> This is short, and incredibly not sweet. I really apologise but I couldn't get this out of my head - and listening to Bluebird, by Sara Bareilles, twenty times a day really didn't help.

_Word came through in a letter_

_One of us changing our minds_

_You won’t need to guess who, since I usually do not send_

_Letters to me that are mine_

_I told him I saw this coming_

_That I’d practically packed up my things_

_I was glad at the time that I said I was fine, but_

_All honesty knows I wasn’t ready, no._

_So here we go Bluebird_

_Back to the sky on your own_

_Oh, let him go Bluebird_

_Ready to fly, you and I_

_Here we go_

_This pair of wings, worn and rusted_

_From too many years by my side_

_They can carry me, swear to be study and strong_

_But see, turning them on still means_

_Goodbye_

_So, here we go Bluebird_

_Gather your strength and rise up_

_Oh, let him go Bluebird_

_Ready to fly, you and I_

_Here we go_

(Bluebird, by Sara Bareilles) 

1.

 

It happens because he makes her breakfast. Waffles with syrup and bacon and fresh fruit cut, as she perches at the breakfast bar in his apartment – soon to be their apartment, as soon as she finds a sub-letter – and he moves easily around the kitchen. She reads the papers – highlighters in hand – and he asks her questions, and teases her gently, and comes around the bench to kiss the back of her neck. She thinks, not for the first time… we might get married. And the thought simultaneously thrills her and sends a cold feeling to the pit of her stomach. She knows – she _knows_ – that she could never live with herself if she didn’t tell him the truth.

 

2.

She has sat herself outside his bedroom door, where he’s shut himself in and won’t come out, won’t respond to her pleas sent through the wall in between long, cold silences where she wills herself not to collapse. It hadn’t gone well. She had terrible timing, and she had fumbled it badly, tripping over the words and starting with _I slept with Brian_ instead of _before we were exclusive_ or _I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my lifetime_.

  _Will_ , she calls, _please come out sweetheart_. _I love you… goddamnit, Will. I love you, you stubborn bloody fool. You have to let me finish… you have to let me explain…_

She trails off, defeated and puts her head between her legs, prepared to wait it out. Then, hearing footsteps on the other side of the door, jumps up with her stomach in her throat.

 He opens the door, but doesn’t look at her. _I’m going out_ , he says. _I’m going for… I’m going to walk for a while. Don’t be here when I get back, okay? I can’t talk to you right now._

 

3.

The letter appears on Monday morning, placed carefully on her desk under a paperweight made for her by her niece in England. She has spent the weekend holed up in her apartment – already half-packed in preparation for her move to Will’s place – trying desperately to distract herself from the fact that her life was collapsing around her by reading article after article about Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan and the intervention in preparation for a Sunday night feature they were planning on airing in a few weeks’ time. And calling Will, and calling Will, and staring at the phone, willing it to ring.  Each minute, breaking her more with its determined silence.

 

She knows what the letter says before she picks it up.

  _M-_

_I’m going away for a few weeks. I’ve spoken to Charlie, and asked him to reassign you to a different show. Or me. I don’t care – I’m leaving the details up to him._

_But I can’t see you again. I’m sorry._

_-W_

 

4.

Shaking, Mac fumbles the key in the lock of her apartment door and falls against it, crying. Finally, crying. She held it together as she read the letter. She held it together as she went, cool as ice, to Charlie and asked him if he knew if any of the news networks needed a producer in the mid-east (of course he did – nobody would turn down an offer from MacKenzie McHale to go to Afghanistan and tell a story). She even held it together as he held her tightly, agreeing to make a call, imploring her to reconsider. But alone again in her half empty apartment she finally lets it go, the sheer heartbreak, the waste of it all overwhelming her.

She realises she’s been there a while when the light changes and it occurs to her that her foot is aching from being twisted underneath her. Using the last of her strength she pulls herself up and surveys her living room, boxes towered and surfaces wiped clean. This is a sign, she thinks. This is what was supposed to happen. This is penance for sins committed without thought. And she goes to her bedroom, pulls her biggest backpack from the back of the closet, and starts packing.

 

5.

When he returns from Southampton she is gone. There’s an email from her in his inbox. He doesn’t read it.


End file.
